“You’re afraid of something, Mrs. Wheeler. I can help you, if you let me.”

“This is unbelievable.” Kate’s voice escalated with each syllable. “Of course I’m afraid. You’ve just arrested me.”

“How did your husband die?” Brody asked.

She flinched. The anger drained from her eyes before her gaze shifted downward. “He was murdered,” she answered at last, sounding forlorn and defenseless.

Her distress affected Brody. He didn’t want to be affected. He wanted to stay detached, uninvolved. But his protective instincts reared up, refusing to be ignored. “By whom?”

“I don’t know.”

“And you’re afraid you’re next?” He hadn’t meant his tone to sound harsh.

Though her peaches-and-cream complexion turned to chalk, she lifted her chin and sat up straighter. The staunch bravado may have returned, but she couldn’t quite hide the anxiety in her eyes.

TERRI REED

grew up in a small town nestled in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. To entertain herself, she created stories in her head and when she put those stories to paper, her teachers in grade school, high school and college encouraged her imagination. Living in Italy as an exchange student whetted her appetite for travel, and modeling in New York, Chicago and San Francisco gave her a love for the big city, as well. She has also coached gymnastics and taught in a preschool. She enjoys walks on the beach, hikes in the mountains and exploring cities. From a young age she attended church, but it wasn’t until her thirties that she really understood the meaning of a faith-filled life. Now living in Portland, Oregon, with her college-sweetheart husband, two wonderful children, a rambunctious Australian shepherd and a fat guinea pig, she feels blessed to be able to share her stories and her faith with the world. She loves to hear from readers at P.O. Box 19555, Portland, OR 97280.

Double Deception
Terri Reed

Be strong and courageous, do not be afraid or tremble at them, for the Lord your God is the one who goes with you. He will not fail you or forsake you.

—Deuteronomy 31:6

To my husband, my hero. I love you always and forever.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

ONE

Brody McClain hated storms.

The pounding rain and swirling wind off the Nantucket Sound were relentless, like the nightmares that had plagued him for five years.

Old anger resurfaced and burned in his gut.

With a shake of his head, he pushed the memories aside and focused his attention back on the small cottage. Concentrate.

Lightning streaked across the sky and reflected off the windowpanes of the dark house, making the dormer windows glow like large, luminous eyes.

Brody crouched behind the branches of an ancient rhododendron. The blood in his head thudded in tempo with the rapid beat of his heart. He gritted his teeth, forcing his breathing under control.

After a moment, his vision cleared and his eyes adjusted to the night. Drops of rain streamed down his back, plastering his cotton shirt to his skin. Should have grabbed a jacket, McClain.

From beyond the house, above the roar of the churning surf crashing against the cape, a seagull’s high-pitched squawk protested the downpour.

I’m with you, buddy.

Blinding lightning pierced the midnight sky. More rumbling thunder nipped at its heels. Brody narrowed his gaze, staring at the large multipaned window near the front door, waiting impatiently for another flash to confirm what he thought he’d just seen.

Finally the light came. In that second of stunning brilliance he saw the silhouette.

Someone was in the house.

His fingers tightened around the grip of his Glock. He’d drawn his sidearm as he’d approached the house, heeding the familiar, gentle nudging he’d learned to respect. Only once had he ignored that inner signal. That mistake had cost him everything.

But that was then. Now…Brody moved soundlessly along the wraparound porch toward the back door. He tried the knob. Locked.

He pulled out a ring of keys and skimmed his finger along the flat surface of each, searching for the correct raised letter. He found the key marked with a K. He slipped it into the lock and opened the door.

A noise beyond the storm outside caught Kate Wheeler’s attention. Just scraps of sound really, like a hinge in need of oil. The noise went perfectly with the eerie shadows that played along the covered furniture, making the white sheets appear ghostly. Musty staleness mingled with the salty scent of the Atlantic Ocean permeated the air.

She shivered in the darkness, her imagination wreaking havoc on her nerves with thoughts of some unknown assassin stalking her.

Outside, the wind howled across the Nantucket Sound, a forlorn noise that echoed through the house.

Fighting to keep her anxiety from turning into panic, Kate leaned against the wall.

Lord, I’m really scared. I need Your courage.

She never should have come here tonight. She should have done the smart thing and waited for morning before coming to the house she hoped held answers to her husband’s death. But patience wasn’t one of her virtues.

Now she was stranded. The airport limousine service had disappeared long ago and the cell phone tucked in her purse was useless, the battery dead and the recharge cord forgotten at home. Given the circumstances of Paul’s death, she should have been more cautious.

Ever since his funeral the previous month, she’d had the uneasy feeling someone was watching her.

The sensation followed her everywhere, the constant impression of eyes observing her every move, taking stock, waiting for the right moment to attack.

I told them you have it.

Paul’s dire words rang in her head. If only she knew what “it” was.

Her condo in Los Angeles had been ransacked twice, which led her to believe that they—whoever they were—hadn’t found the mysterious object. She hoped she’d find answers to her questions here in this small Massachusetts town, starting with this place—a house she’d known nothing about.

She glanced around as hurt burrowed in deep. How long had Paul owned this oceanfront cottage? Why had he bought a house when he’d refused to purchase one with her, his wife?

Once she would have expected the trappings of a normal marriage.

Paul’s courtship had been the epitome of romance. They’d met at a Chamber of Commerce mixer. She’d been taken with his blond good looks and professional demeanor. He’d wooed her with candlelit dinners, roses at her door every Friday and touching love letters. She hadn’t been able to resist his hard press. He’d represented stability and security: everything she longed for, everything that had been missing in her childhood.

But after the wedding, he’d changed. Even though he’d championed her career, urging her to advance rapidly through the ranks of the bank where she worked, he’d become distant at home. At first she’d attributed his withdrawal to difficulty adjusting to marriage.

As time wore on, she’d become more confused. She didn’t know what she’d done to make him pull away. Throughout their four-year marriage, they’d been both physically and emotionally separated. The lack of love, respect and affection had cut her to her soul.

She’d tried everything to keep the marriage intact. She’d prayed every day. She’d sought professional help. But Paul had refused to go to counseling. He’d refused to talk to their pastor. He’d even stopped attending church. When people asked about him, she didn’t know what to say. They’d become strangers living in the same apartment.

Now he was dead and she was left to clean up the mess.

She pushed away from the wall. Though she’d never been afraid of the dark, the lack of electricity in the little seaside bungalow unnerved her. She moved to the rustic side table and finally located matches and a candle in the bottom drawer.

With shaky hands, Kate struck the match. Nothing. On her second try the little stick sputtered to life with a small burst of flame and she held the fire against the candle’s wick. But if she’d thought the light would quell her uneasy feeling, she was mistaken. Beyond the circle of light, the glow flickered, deepening the shadows and adding to the spooky feel of the room.

The wind increased in tempo. A branch grated along a wall and a chill darted over Kate’s flesh, raising goose bumps along her skin. A gust of air blew through the living room and the candle’s flame careened crazily out of control before sputtering to a silent death. Inky darkness once again descended, enveloping her.

Suddenly, the familiar sense of being watched became acute, wrapping around Kate like greedy hands, stealing her breath. She shuddered. She glanced about the room, the blackness overwhelming, menacing.

Nothing’s there. No one had been there for a month. She was safe here. She had to be.

Moving quickly toward the entryway where she’d left her suitcases and purse, Kate decided to find a bedroom where she could curl up beneath the blankets and wait for morning. Answers would be found in the daylight.

A flash of lightning exploded and threw the ebony night into stark relief. Her world appeared like a photo negative.

The harsh light illuminated the retreating figure of a man as he moved away from her through the kitchen.

A man with a gun.

The blood drained from her head. For a split second she wrestled with the sensation of dizziness. Her heart clutched before pounding in large, booming beats. The roar of blood rushing back to her brain flooded her ears, blocking out the sounds of the night.

He would see her if she moved to the front door. Her gaze darted in the direction of the bedrooms. If he found her there she’d be trapped. But what choice did she have? The bags slid from her slackened fingers to land soundlessly on the small area rug beneath her feet. Please, Lord, protect me. Because no one on earth would.

Then all was black again.

Once inside the cottage, Brody listened for any telltale sounds of the intruder, but the nocturnal noises beyond the walls of the house taunted his caution. Not wanting to announce his presence yet, he kept his flashlight attached to his belt.

Silently, he moved from the kitchen into the dining room. A large wooden table and several chairs made the area difficult to negotiate in the dark.

He breathed in. Beyond the musty, rank smell of disuse, an out-of-place scent drifted past his nostrils. The acrid smell of a burnt match.

On heightened alert, Brody moved forward, leading with his firearm. Once free of the dining room, he entered the living room. Another smell. A fragrance he recognized from his mother’s garden—the sweet scent of lilacs.

Light flashed. A sharp, loud bang exploded into the stillness and ricocheted off the walls.

Brody dove for cover. His heart hammered in his chest. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and his nerves stretched taut. For a beat of time he was back in Boston, seeing the flare of gunfire, reliving the agony of betrayal.

The sounds of his own breath wiped the memory away. Thunder, you idiot. The storm was playing games with his mind.

Crawling to the wall, he pressed his throbbing hip and back against its cool surface. He took a deep, calming breath and focused on the one constant in his life, his job. He could never forget what he had to do.

Peering around the corner into the entryway, he caught sight of a dark shape. He froze, his heart picked up speed again. Though his vision was 20/20, the darkness made it difficult to see. Brody expelled a harsh breath. He had no choice. He had to get closer.

Lying prone and using his forearms to move his body forward, Brody crept across the threshold between the two rooms, over the cold hardwood floor toward the dark form. Three feet away, he released the breath he’d been holding.

Luggage. Black leather, two large and one small carry-on type. He frowned and moved closer. He nudged them. Full.

What was going on?

A fragment of noise came from down the hall, toward the bedrooms. He slowly rose and in a low crouch, proceeded into the gloom of the long hallway. He stopped to listen for more sound to direct his way. None came.

He paused at the first door he came to and listened for a moment. No noise. Still he braced himself, fisted his flashlight and turned the knob. The door swung open. Brody flipped on the flashlight. His gaze swept the room. Nothing beneath the bed. But the closet…

Out of habit, he glanced over his shoulder, making sure no one was behind him. He pressed his back into the wall, closed his hand over the closet doorknob and slowly turned.

Kate had to find a way out of the house.

She stood in the middle of the second bedroom. A bed, a dresser, a nightstand and a closet. There was nowhere to hide. Forget the closet. She couldn’t take being in the small, confining space. Better to face her enemy and die in the open than wait meekly in what very well could be her coffin.

Chills slid over her body.

She didn’t dare go back down the hall, so that left the window above the bed. Stepping up onto the mattress, she grasped the handle and pulled upward.

The window wouldn’t budge. She tried the lock, but it refused to give. Using all of her strength, she managed to turn the lock, and yet the window still wouldn’t move. Running a hand over the wood, she found the problem. The window had been nailed shut.

She gritted her teeth in frustration as she fought desperate panic. The logical part of her mind that had always ruled her life clamped down on the urgent impulse to dive head-first through the glass and hope she got away in one piece.

An idea formed in her mind. Something she’d seen in a movie or read in a book.

Lord, let this work in real life.

Kate snatched the brass bedside lamp, yanking the cord from the wall. Taking a deep breath, she raised her arm and threw the lamp with all her might at the window. Glass shattered in a shower of chunks and slivers, mostly landing in the dirt on the outside the house, some falling inward onto the bed.

She cringed at the noise, then jumped from the bed and ran across the room to press her body against the wall beside the hinges of the door bare seconds before it burst open. The doorknob connected with her hipbone and she bit her lip to stifle a cry.

In hypnotic terror, she watched as the broad back of a man appeared within her line of vision. Please, don’t let him find me.

She squeezed farther into the corner. The man stopped in front of the open closet door, his head cocked to one side. He moved out of her view and she heard the barely perceptible creak of the mattress and a powerful beam of light lit the room. Kate closed her eyes and prayed her ruse had worked and he thought she’d escaped.

The light went out and she heard a soft thud. He’d stepped off the bed. A second later she heard him move toward the doorway. Tensing, she waited.

Through the crack between the door and the jamb she saw him pass by, a dimmer shape against the darkness. Relief coursed through her, making her knees weak. She hadn’t been found. Thank You, Lord.

Minutes ticked by. She heard the solid click of the front door being closed, the sound of the man retreating to take his search into the night. The waiting seemed eternal before she gathered enough nerve to emerge from behind the door.

Should she go through the house to escape? She turned to look at the broken window. The jagged edges would cut her to shreds. She didn’t have any choice. She had to go through the house.

Brody stood poised with his back against the wall at the mouth of the long, dark hallway. Clever trick, breaking the glass to make it look as if his prey had jumped out the window and escaped.

The second Brody had entered the bedroom he’d known he wasn’t alone. A tightening of his senses had made him aware of the other’s presence.

Even if his instincts hadn’t alerted him, he still would have known. No one could have gone out that window without cutting themselves and leaving a trail of blood. Besides, the lack of footprints in the soft, mossy dirt below the window, visible in his flashlight’s beam, had been a dead giveaway.

So he waited. Waited as a honed patience calmed his heart and readied his body. It was only a matter of time.

Inch by inch, Kate made her way down the pitch-black corridor, her hand guiding her past the doors to the other rooms. As she neared the living room she stopped. A familiar, yet strange sensation tickled her spine. She wasn’t alone.

On some deep, basic level she felt the man’s presence, sensed his heartbeat. She pressed her back flat against the wall and balled her hands into tight fists. It wasn’t fair. But then, God never promised life would be fair, only that He’d be there.

Her gaze slid from the grayer light of the house back to the darkness of the windowless hall. Was he behind her in the dark, inching his way toward her? Taking her lip between her teeth to keep tears and welling panic at bay, she stood immobile, unsure what her next move should be.

Tension coiled, her stomach churned and her lungs burned. She couldn’t go back. She had to go forward.

With a deep breath, she pushed from the wall and forced her legs to move fast. Adrenaline coursed through her limbs and her heart raced. She could see the front door. She just had to make it across the open entry way. Three more feet…iron cords wrapped around her, stopping her momentum with a jerk. She screamed as she was tackled to the ground.

Her head smacked against the hardwood and spots of light exploded before her eyes. A huge, muscled body landed on top of her, effectively pinning her beneath his hulking figure, and drove the air from her lungs.

Fear blasted up her spine. She was going to die, and it was all Paul’s fault.

With a grip of steel, the man yanked her arms over her head and held her wrists captive while another probing hand ran over her body. Numbing shock rippled through her, then the roaming hand stilled.

The man swore in a deep hiss near her ear and eased off her.

She took a shallow breath.

“You’re a woman,” a deep, rich voice accused.

The observation seemed ridiculous. Of course she was a woman. Did Paul’s murderer think Paul had been married to a monkey?

The ridiculous thought brought fear raging headlong into her consciousness. This man was here to get something she hadn’t a clue about, and then he would probably kill her the way he’d killed Paul. Then another thought flittered across her mind: what if he assaulted her before killing her? Oh, Lord, take me home quickly.

No. Not yet. Sheer terror spurred her into action. She twisted and turned, her body bucking in an effort to throw him off balance. Her hands pulled against the restraint of his grip, her legs struggled to find leverage on the floor, pushing and kicking wildly. The toe of her shoe made contact with a shin, eliciting a grunt of pain from her attacker. A moment of satisfaction brought a tightening to her lips.

Her knee flew upward but he rolled slightly, deflecting her hit to his hip. She ground her back teeth. She wasn’t going to let him win. She wasn’t ready to die.

“Hey, lady. Calm down.”

Calm down? He wanted her calm so he could kill her. Her grandmother had taught her that God hadn’t made women to be passive, but proactive. She’d fight with everything she had before she’d calmly let this man do her in.

Arching upward, she used her forehead as a ramming device. She connected with his chin, causing his teeth to come together with a snap. Pain shot through her.

For a moment his grip lessened and she took advantage of the opportunity. Freeing a hand, she lashed out, aiming for his eyes. She fell short, her nails raking sharply down his face, evoking a yowl of pain.

“That’s it!” The harsh words echoed through the house. He held her hands in a grip so tight she knew she’d never get free.

“No!” But still she fought, determined not to give up until the last breath left her body. Too many questions remained unanswered, too much pain still lived in her heart. Blind fear made her body convulse, desperate to break free.

The chink of metal somewhere above her head made her close her eyes. She didn’t want to see the torture device he would use on her and she prayed for oblivion. Oblivion and a painless death.

She cried out in surprise as he twisted her arm behind her and flipped her over. Cold metal encircled her wrists. A sharp snap filled her ears. And only then, from the far reaches of sanity, did she realize she’d been handcuffed. The man spoke in low, smooth tones, but her terror-fogged mind couldn’t grasp the words.

“Do you understand?” The steady cadence of his words, the richness of his voice, washed over her and a sense of unreality set in. Closing her eyes tightly, she readied herself for the journey to heaven.

The man grasped her shoulders and gently shook her. “Do you understand? Answer me!”

“No.” She didn’t understand why she was about to die. She didn’t understand how she’d come to this point in time. And she didn’t understand how she could have been so wrong about Paul. Who had she been married to? What kind of man had he really been? And why had he allowed this to happen to her? Unfortunately, she would die without the answers.

“Lady, how hard is it to understand? You’re under arrest.”

TWO

The woman beneath him stilled.

“Arrest?” The word came out in a dry croak.

“Yes, you’re under arrest.” Brody couldn’t see her face but he heard the rapid labor of her breath, felt the rise and fall of her chest where their ribs connected. And he was all too aware of the fact that his intruder was female. Soft and full of curves. The smell of lilacs he’d detected earlier wasn’t a remnant of the owner’s last visit, sporadic as they were.

The scent clung to his captive’s hair.

Pushing away, he came to his knees and helped her to a sitting position.

“You’re…you’re not here…to kill me?” Her voice faded to a hushed stillness and Brody heard the fear behind the words.

“I’m not going to kill you,” he said in a calming tone. “Do you understand that anything you say can be used against you in a court of law—”

She made an odd noise. “You’re a cop?”

“Yes, ma’am. You have the right to an attorney. If—”

“I haven’t done anything,” she interrupted.

Brody ignored her protest and finished her Miranda rights then helped her to her feet as a bolt of lightning whitewashed the room. He caught a glimpse of an impish face and large, luminous eyes. The tip of her head barely reached the top of his shoulder. So much spirit in one so little. A spark of admiration for the way she’d fought him flared hot.

The light faded and the shadows returned, leaving him feeling unsettled. She certainly didn’t look like a criminal.

He heard her test the strength of the metal links between the cuffs.

“Are these really necessary?”

In the blackness, her voice rang cool and clear, yet Brody heard the underlying tension in her tone. Why did she think someone was out to kill her?

“I’ll take them off when we get to the station.” His natural caution took precedence. Regardless of the gender of his intruder, experience had taught him how deceptive people could be—especially the female sort.

“The police station?”

“Actually, the county sheriff’s office. Let’s go.” His terse answer harbored no room for discussion.

“My purse!”

Brody paused by the grouping of luggage. He picked up the leather bag that he’d mistaken for a carry-on piece of luggage. “This?”

She nodded.

The damp shirt on his back itched and the house grew colder by the minute, making his hip hurt and his limbs grow numb. He resisted the urge to limp by placing a hand on her arm to guide her out of the house. She tried to pull away but he tightened his hold.

Beneath his palm, she trembled as he helped her into his cruiser. Her flowery, lilac scent once again reminded him of his mother’s garden. A place where he used to find a sense of serenity. Even if he took up Mom’s constant invitations to come home, he doubted he’d find that kind of peace now.

With the heater cranked high, they rode in silence through the small town of Havensport, Massachusetts, the quaint buildings of the New England community surveyed by Brody with a sheriff’s eye.

Stores dark and locked tight, no suspicious characters roaming the streets. There never were. Until tonight. Havensport was as boringly safe as a small town could get, but old habits were hard to break.

The sheriff’s office kept keys of all the summer homes in case of emergencies. Lucky for Pete Kinsey that Mae Couch, the elderly lady who lived next door, had been looking out her window and seen someone lurking about. So unusual an occurrence was it, Sheriff Brody McClain had immediately responded.

He glanced in the rearview mirror. The woman’s face was turned toward the window, but he could make out the straight line of her nose, which tilted upward slightly at the tip and a wide, generous mouth set into a firm crease. She hadn’t spoken since they’d left the house.

Within the enclosed space of his cruiser he couldn’t tell the color of her hair. The lights of the station would tell him soon enough. He returned his gaze forward as he slowed to park the car in his spot by the door of the station.

The Havensport County Sheriff’s Office stood at one end of town like a sentinel on guard duty. Though the redbrick building, built in the early part of the century with a high peaked roof and multipaned windows, had withstood updates both in and out, it still remained a historical landmark, due mainly to the fact that the first sheriff’s family still owned most of the property within a thirty-mile radius around the town.

Brody got out and opened the back door. The woman refused his help and struggled out of the vehicle on her own. With reluctance, he again felt admiration for her grit.

Rain poured from the sky, rolling in rivulets down his face. Quickly, he ushered his charge into the station.

Her hair was copper. He’d always liked redheads. He should have stuck with them instead of being tempted by Elise’s willowy blond good looks.

The station’s warmth seeped through his drenched clothing, bringing life back to his numb limbs and chasing away the cold reality of Elise.

After settling the woman into a chair, he unlocked the handcuffs. She rubbed at the rough, red marks left by the metal rings. Brody lowered his gaze and busied himself at the antique oak desk, ignoring the uncomfortable twinge of guilt that rose at the sight of her reddened, slender wrists.

Deputy Warren Teal stepped from the bathroom, still drying his hands with a paper towel. “Hi, boss.”

Warren’s curious gaze settled on Kate as he crumpled the sheet into a ball. After tossing it into the wastebasket, he perched his lean frame on the edge of Brody’s desk. “What do we have here? This the perp at the Kinsey house?”

Brody arched a brow at the deputy. The young rookie was overeager at times, but fairly competent.

“Sorry.” Warren moved away and sat at the only other desk in the room. “She do that to your face?”

Ignoring the questions and the reminder of his stinging cheek, Brody took a blank report, a pen—he preferred to write out the reports first and key them in later—then turned to the woman. “Name?”

Her gaze pinned him to his chair. Confusion radiated from the depths of her large green eyes. “You don’t know?”

Brody’s mouth twisted with wry amusement. “Lady, I’m good, but not that good.”

She blinked. “Why did you arrest me?”

“B and E is a felony, ma’am.” At her blank expression, he clarified, “Breaking and entering.”

“I didn’t break in,” she insisted, leaning forward. “I own the house. My late husband left the property to me.” Her voice wavered. “If you’ll let me call my attorney, he’ll be able to straighten this whole mess out.”

He glanced at her left hand. No band of gold encircled her ring finger. “Pete Kinsey’s your husband?” That was a surprise. The womanizing stockbroker had commented often enough how marriage turned men into jellyfish. Not exactly the marrying type.

“My husband’s name was Paul Wheeler. He owned the house. Pete Kinsey was my husband’s business partner.”

Warren turned in his chair, his gray eyes round with interest. “Pete never mentioned a business partner.” He shook his head in bemusement. “Wow, can that man party.”

Pete Kinsey’s parties were legendary on the Cape. Every summer he’d host a big bash with the big society types in attendance—Hollywood celebrities, corporate big shots, political figures. The affair lasted a full weekend and the locals looked forward to the money it brought in. And as long as they didn’t break any laws, Brody left them alone.

“Don’t you have some work to do, Warren?”

The deputy shrugged and picked up a report.

Intrigued by the situation and by the petite redhead, Brody tapped his pen against the form in front of him as he studied her. “Your full name?”

“Katherine Amanda Wheeler.”

Brody wrote out her name. “Address?”

The Beverly Hills address took him by surprise. “You’re a long way from home.”

She ignored his comment. “Don’t I get a phone call?”

“As soon as I have the paperwork filled out.” He laid his hand on her purse which he’d deposited on top of his desk. “Is your ID in here?”

“Yes.”

He picked up the satchel and unzipped it. “Mind?”

Her deprecating gaze bored into him. “Do I have a choice?”

“No.” But still he waited for permission.

“Then go ahead.”

He dumped the contents of her purse onto the desktop. A compact, a black tube of lipstick, three granola bars and a thick black wallet spilled out. He unclasped the single snap on the folded wallet and plucked her ID from the first plastic sheath. He wrote down the information on the form. “Your occupation?”

“I work for Valley Savings Bank as the Vice President of Operations. You want to call my boss for a reference?”

Brody cocked his brow. “No. That won’t be necessary.”

She rolled her eyes. The harsh fluorescent light overhead failed to wash out the sparks of fire in her shoulder-length hair. His gaze strayed to the curling ends where they teased the collar of her pink silk blouse. He tightened his grip on the pen in his hand to keep from reaching out to test the curls. Would they be as silky as they looked?

Her clothing spoke of the kind of money that went along with her address. The tailored suit she wore, though wrinkled and damp, couldn’t hide the curves beneath.

“What were you doing there, Mrs. Wheeler?” he questioned, bringing his mind back to business.

“I wanted to see the house.” Katherine wrapped her arms around herself. He noticed her shiver while some of the fight drained from her eyes. The coat he’d failed to take with him hung on the back of his chair. Reaching behind him, he grabbed the jacket and handed it to her.

She wrapped the too-large jacket around her shoulders. “Thanks.”

He gave a short nod of his head. She looked small and vulnerable and in need of protection. Seeing her in his coat made his chest burn. Irritably, he pushed the phone across the desk. “Make your call.”

He didn’t have to offer twice. Her long, tapered fingers moved over the keypad. Brody watched her hands and then, like a gawker at a crime scene, his gaze was drawn to her mouth. Pink, soft-looking. Well-shaped lips. Kissable lips

Yanking his mind away from that treacherous path, he decided he was more tired than he’d thought. The last thing he should be thinking about was his suspect’s kissability.

He forced his attention back to the phone, on the faint metallic sound of a male voice coming through the line. From the look of consternation on Katherine’s face, he guessed an answering machine had picked up.

“Gordon, its Kate. You won’t believe this. I’m at the Havensport Sheriff’s office, of all things. The number here is…” She raised her brows in question.

Brody gave her the number, which she repeated into the phone before hanging up. Circles of fatigue darkened the skin beneath her eyes, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He dearly wished his mother hadn’t raised a gentleman. Despite how much he might want to let Katherine Wheeler go lie down, he still had questions that needed answers.

Swallowing his inclinations, he got back to business. “Why did you think someone was coming to the house to kill you?”

A watchful wariness filled her gaze. “I was alone. You attacked me. What was I supposed to think? That you wanted to dance?”

A spurt of amusement kicked up the corner of Brody’s mouth.

She picked up his nameplate and toyed with it between her slender hands. Her manicured nails clicked against the brass. “Where do we go from here?”

“I need to verify your story, check out your ID—”

“And then?” She lifted an auburn brow.

“Then you’ll tell me what kind of trouble you’re in.”

For a brief second her gem-colored gaze locked with his before darting away. “The only trouble I have is you, Sheriff.”

Brody smiled grimly, tossed his pen on the desk and sat back in his chair. Here we go again.

She was lying.

On the mean streets of Boston, Brody had learned how to read people, learned to watch for the signs, and she definitely showed signs. And this time he wasn’t going to ignore the obvious. She was holding back and not for one second did he believe she’d thought him a random intruder.

The scratches left by her nails itched, reminding him of her blind terror. He dabbed at his face with a tissue. Tiny spots of red soaked into the material. “So, what has you so spooked?”

“Are you going to book me, Sheriff McClain?” Her knuckles turned white around the nameplate. “I’m cold and tired. And I don’t want to sit here while you play amateur psychologist.”

He would have been amused if he hadn’t noticed the fleeting look of disdain in her eyes. She didn’t know the extent of how much psychobabble he could recite or the reasons why. He told himself to forget it, not to offer his help or advice. “You’re afraid of something, Mrs. Wheeler. I can help you, if you let me.”

“This is unbelievable.” Her voice escalated with each syllable. “Of course I’m afraid. You’ve just arrested me.” Her eyes flared with anger, deepening in color to a dark forest green.

“How did your husband die?”

She flinched. The anger drained from her eyes before her gaze shifted downward and her fingers flexed around his nameplate.

“He was murdered,” she answered at last, sounding forlorn and defenseless.

Her distress affected him. He didn’t want to be affected. He wanted to stay detached, uninvolved. But his protective instincts reared up, refusing to be ignored.

“By whom? Do you think Pete Kinsey killed him?”

“I don’t know.”

“And you’re afraid you’re next?” He hadn’t meant for his tone to sound harsh.

Though her peaches-and-cream complexion turned to chalk, her chin lifted and she sat up straighter. The staunch bravado may have returned, but she couldn’t quite hide the anxiety in her eyes.

“So what happens now?” she questioned.

Brody tore his gaze from the slight cleft dimpling the middle of her chin. “You’re my guest until I can verify your story, because as far as I know, Pete Kinsey owns that house.” He stood and motioned her toward the cell. The small, barred cubicle was barren except for a cot, a pillow and a blanket.

“You’ve got to be kidding!”

“It’s not the presidential suite, but it’s better than most, and it’s clean.” And safe.

Those bright green eyes glared at him with haughty indignation that rivaled his younger sister Meghan’s. He smothered a smile.

Kate moved into the cell and turned her back on him. An unsettling protest nagged at Brody. He didn’t like seeing the petite redhead behind bars. She seemed harmless and innocent, hardly a hardened criminal.

He took a step and pain shot down his leg, reminding him sharply that appearances could be deceiving. He’d learned his lesson and he’d sworn never again to let a pretty face distract him from his job. He shifted his weight and eased the pain.

“Here.” Kate slipped the jacket from around her shoulders and shoved it at him. He took it, then closed the cell door, along with the door to his bleeding heart.

Exhaustion overtook Kate and seeped into her bones, making her limbs heavy with lassitude. She grabbed the blanket from the cot and fluffed the pillow with her fist.

Sleeping in a jail cell wasn’t exactly how she’d planned on spending her first night on the east coast, especially not on charges of breaking and entering.

She’d probably said more than she should. Her lawyer had sternly told her not to say anything, ever, without his presence. A self-deprecating grimace pulled at her mouth. Of course, if she’d heeded Gordon’s advice and not left town, she wouldn’t be incarcerated right now.

Sitting down on the narrow, makeshift bed, she muttered, “Better a jail cell than a coffin.”

Her hands twisted the rough blanket. The material grew warm beneath her palms. Her lips formed a wry smile. Thank You, Lord, for giving me such a safe place to sleep tonight.

She looked at the sheriff. From a distance, his big, male body wasn’t nearly as intimidating while hunched in front of his computer screen, his large fingers stabbing at the keys.

The set of his square jaw revealed his concentration and she doubted he realized his dark, wavy hair still glistened with rainwater. His soaked brown uniform emphasized his wide shoulders and broad chest. She could appreciate his masculine appeal with him across the room, but with him up close she’d found herself struggling to breathe evenly.

Abruptly, she shook off the notion of attraction and attributed the thudding of her heart to fear. A tight knot formed in her stomach. Soon, he would learn the complete story of Paul’s death and the police’s interest in her.

The sheriff had been too perceptive by half, his dark, intense eyes assessing her like an oddity. His questions and offer of help spoken in that much-too-pleasing accent had nearly unhinged her, making her want to open up, to tell him what haunted her nightmares. But Paul’s final words echoed inside her head.

Trust…no one.

During the last several weeks, Kate’s natural inclination to look for the good had dimmed until she was afraid even to allow herself to trust a man who should be trustworthy. But the police in Los Angeles had made her very aware that trust had to be earned.

The only person she remotely trusted now was Gordon Thomas, her lawyer. The kindly older gentleman had entered her life when her mother had hired him to deal with her divorce. Over the years he’d stayed a part of their lives, becoming a surrogate uncle for Kate, always willing to listen when she couldn’t deal with her mother. Kate was grateful he’d taken an interest. Gordon had guided Kate in her college and career choices. She hated to think what path she’d have followed without his tutorship.

But this situation demanded she act on her own. She couldn’t ever have the peace and security she craved if she didn’t pursue the truth.

Her gaze wandered back to the sheriff. His dark hair fell across his forehead as he shifted in his seat, obstructing her view of his eyes, though she could see the angry red marks running down the side of his cheek left by her nails. She hoped he wouldn’t scar, although she doubted even the puckering of wounded flesh could decrease the handsomeness of his ruggedly sculpted face.

Overhead, the lights dimmed and then blinked off and on. The sheriff lifted his head and their gazes locked. For a moment they stared at each other and a shaft of embarrassment darted up Kate’s spine to settle in her cheeks. She was staring. She turned sharply away from his hooded, watchful eyes.

“Oh, man.”

The sheriff’s disgruntled voice brought her head back around.

“What’s up?” Warren asked, his wiry form unfolding from his desk chair.

“Computer’s down.” The sheriff straightened and rolled his massive shoulders.

“You look done in. Why don’t you head home? I’ll stay here with the prisoner.”

Kate stiffened at the deputy’s words. Staring hard at the sheriff, she held her breath, waiting for his reply. Don’t go. Lord, please don’t let him leave.

Sheriff McClain leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. His lids dropped, hiding the darkness of his eyes. After a heartbeat he replied, “No, I’ll stay. But there’s no sense in us both being here. You go on home to your pretty wife.”

The deputy slanted Kate one last curious look, shrugged and picked up his jacket from the back of his chair. “Suit yourself. See you in the morning.”

Kate breathed a sigh of relief as the deputy disappeared through the station door. While probably capable, the deputy just didn’t seem as made for the task of protecting her as the sheriff did.

Her attention shifted back to Sheriff McClain. Didn’t he have a wife to go home to? A wife waiting, worrying and wondering if he’d return or would this be the day he died for his dedication to his job? What type of woman would claim the love of a man with a dangerous occupation?

A woman like her own mother.

A woman unlike herself.

She squashed her curiosity. The sheriff’s private life was none of her business. If he left his wife alone and lonely while he gave his job the attention his wife craved, what was that to her? Right now Kate needed him to do his job. She was thankful he’d stayed, but she wasn’t going to dwell on the sheriff or why his presence was comforting.

Instead, she lay down on the cot and pulled the blanket to her chin. She doubted sleep would come, but closing her eyes and pretending sure beat staring at the too-handsome man who’d arrested her.

The storm’s wrath didn’t seem to penetrate the station walls and the room fell silent. Feeling relatively safe for the time being, Kate tried to relax. Unaccountably, she felt the sheriff would keep her from harm. God had put her in his care. She’d face her worries again with the new day.

Her body grew heavy and her lids felt weighted down as sleep settled in. Faintly, she heard a rustling of noise. The sheriff finally moving from his reclined position. His quiet footfalls echoed inside her head, but she was too groggy to open her eyes to see what he was doing.

Even when she heard the quiet click, then the slight squeak of the cell door opening, she couldn’t muster up enough panic to rouse her from slumber.

She felt the added weight of another blanket being laid across her. With a sigh, she snuggled beneath the cocoon of rough material and drifted completely to sleep.

Brody stared at the sleeping woman.

Katherine Wheeler. No, he much preferred the informal Kate that she’d referred to herself as.

Why did he care if she grew cold? It shouldn’t matter. But it did.

There was something compelling about her, something that pulled at him. Maybe it was the vulnerability he saw in her large, springtime eyes or the fact that she’d felt safe enough to allow herself to rest. Whatever the case, it had to stop. He couldn’t allow himself to be drawn in by her.

Until Kate’s story checked out, he had to think of her as a criminal. He half hoped she did own the house; he’d hate to see her end up in Walpole. Massachusetts Criminal Institute Cedar Junction was no place for such a pretty woman.

But then again, if what she said was true…what if she decided to become a resident of Havensport? Brody had an uneasy feeling that having her in the same town for any length of time would be hazardous to his carefully tended solitude.

Ha! As if you’d ever let a woman get close to you again, reprimanded his inner voice. As if this woman, who drips with class, would ever want to get close to you.

Brody drew back from the sleeping woman on the cot. He rubbed the spot on his hip where he bore the constant reminder of what trusting a woman could do. Old anger and helpless rage roared to life and Brody let out a compressed breath. He spun away and stalked back to his desk to stare at the blank computer screen.

The quicker he cleared up the mess with his guest, the better. Then his nice quiet life could resume the way he wanted it.

Alone.

THREE

Sunshine streamed through the barred window of the jail cell, spilling slanted lines of light across the cement floor and onto the cot where Kate lay. The warmth of the golden rays touched her cheek, and roused her from sleep.

Turning her head fully into the light, Kate frowned at the faint scent that clung to the air. She couldn’t place it, but she knew it. A masculine fragrance, which stirred up images of a hard body pressed against her, a handsome face and a tender gesture.

The sheriff.

Kate’s lids popped opened, her body tensed on the hard cot. Now she remembered where she was and why. Staring up at the gray ceiling of the jail cell, she listened for movement. Only the sounds of her own breathing met her ears. Was she alone in the jailhouse? She only had to turn her head to see through the black bars, but she stayed motionless, assessing her situation.

Strangely, she hadn’t dreamed last night. One would think being locked up in a cold jail cell would bring her nightmares on full force. But she felt rested and ready to tackle the task of discovering why Paul had been murdered.

First she had to deal with Sheriff McClain.

Once Gordon explained about the house, the sheriff would have to let her go. But she had a disquieting feeling her association with the man wouldn’t end there. He seemed the type to press, to find challenge in uncovering secrets. Her heart skipped a beat. Maybe the sheriff could help.

She sat up abruptly.

No. She couldn’t trust anyone, save God. Even this man who’d sounded so sincere when he’d offered his help, who had cared enough to supply another blanket, who’d…she glanced down.

On the floor, next to her feet, sat a tray with juice, cereal and milk. Surprise and a good dose of pleased warmth suffused her.

Her gaze sought out the sheriff. He sat leaning over his desk with his cheek resting on his forearms. Asleep. He looked boyish, with waves of ebony spilling over his forehead and dark lashes splayed across his cheeks. Kate shook her head in wonder. Just when had Sheriff McClain brought the tray in? She’d heard the squeak of the cell door only once, when he’d brought her the blanket.

A violent shudder swept her body. She’d spent a dreamless night within the cell, lulled to sleep by a false sense of security. Anyone could easily have killed her in her sleep. Anyone being the sheriff.

But he hadn’t.

Sheriff McClain was not the enemy. He hadn’t known Paul. The man was simply a small-town sheriff doing his job. In her heart, she acknowledged that as truth, but her brain wasn’t so sure.

Trust no one.

“Get a grip, girl,” she muttered as she opened the milk carton and poured the liquid into the bowl of corn flakes. Paul’s warning couldn’t have extended to the sheriff. There was no reason she couldn’t trust Brody McClain.

As she finished the cereal and was about to open the orange juice, a pained grunt split the air. Kate’s gaze jumped to the sheriff. His once-relaxed features pulled back into a grimace, his head jerked and a moan slipped from between his lips.

She realized he was gripped within a nightmare. She knew what it was like to feel helplessly lost in the dark swirl of fear, memory and sleep. Compassion filled her chest until it ached with the need to relieve him of his dreams.

“Sheriff McClain?” Her voice bounced off the walls but held no power. “Sheriff?” she tried again, but to no avail. His head thrashed across his bent arms, his big body tense.

Taking a deep breath, Kate used her diaphragm to add more strength to her voice. “McClain!”

Her voice snapped through the station like the slam of a door.

As a wake-up call, it worked well.

Brody jerked his head up and blinked several times before he realized he was at the station, not on a darkened street in the middle of a storm facing the barrel of a gun.

His gaze met that of the woman occupying the cell. Red curls framed her face, emphasizing her large, compassion-filled eyes. She’d witnessed his nightmare. Great.

Taking a shuddering breath, Brody composed himself and rose from his chair. Rigid, stiff muscles objected to the stretching. His limbs ached. The need to work out the kinks demanded his attention, but Brody had a job to finish first. The gym would have to wait.

He moved away from the desk to the coffee machine. With each step of his right leg, pain shot into his hip. He refused to allow himself the luxury of limping when meadow-green eyes followed his every move.

By rote, he went through the process of making strong coffee. Soon, the sound and smell of brewing French roast filled the air. Brody inhaled the rich scent for a moment, and pushed away the unease of Kate having witnessed what he worked so hard to keep beneath his heel. He walked steadily to the cell and opened the door. “Good morning.”

His charge stared at him. Her head listed to the side and questions fairly radiated from her expression. “Good morning.”

The corners of her mouth kicked up in a tentative smile that sneaked inside his chest and made it difficult to breathe.

“Thank you for breakfast…and the blanket.”

He swallowed against both her gratitude and the effects of her smile. He didn’t want either one. “I hope you slept well.”

“I did, actually.” She stood and stepped past him, then stopped in the center of the room. She looked around uncertainly. “Is there a restroom I could use?”

“Down the corridor, on the left.” Brody watched her disappear before he shifted his feet and took his weight onto his left leg, easing the ache in his right hip. Why was he bothering? It didn’t make sense; vanity wasn’t usually one of his faults. But letting her witness his weakness was…out of the question. He didn’t want her to look at him with pity.

Most everyone in town knew vague details of how he’d acquired his limp. Few dared approach the subject and even fewer knew the truth of the situation. Taking a bullet was a hazard of the job that every law-enforcement officer faced. Only for Brody it was so much more and so much worse.

Forcing his torturous thoughts to recede, Brody limped over to his desk, sat down and tried to boot up the computer. The screen remained blank. He made a mental note to call the local computer expert and have him take a look at the infernal machine, which was always on the fritz. Somewhat ruefully, he figured he’d have to check out his guest the old-fashioned way.

As he reached for the phone, it rang, the shrill sound ringing hollow in the small station. Picking up the receiver, he answered, “Havensport County Sheriff’s Office, Sheriff McClain speaking.”

“I understand you have Katherine Wheeler in your custody.” The gravelly voice boomed in Brody’s ear, the tone sharp, the words clipped.

“And you are?”

“Gordon Thomas, Katherine’s attorney.”

Figured a Beverly Hills address could buy attitude. “She was caught breaking into one of our residents’ summer home.”

“The Kinsey residence?”

“Yes.”

“The house belongs to my client.”

Brody didn’t like the condescending tone in the man’s voice. “I’ll need proof of that.”

“What’s your fax number?” the man asked curtly.

Brody rattled off the number and a few seconds later the machine in the corner beeped and hissed. Paper rolled out; sheet after sheet until finally it gave one final beep and remained silent.

“Sheriff McClain, I’d like to speak with Ms. Wheeler.”

“Sorry, she’s indispos…” Brody’s voice trailed off as he noticed Kate standing beside his desk. Even with her wrinkled clothes and finger-combed hair, she radiated a quiet confidence. He’d give the lady credit; she was no fragile flower.

“Here she is.”

Kate took the phone and turned away. He could hear the urgent note in the low tones of her voice. Picking up the fax, he flipped through the pages and realized Katherine Wheeler, though he liked Kate better, had been telling the truth. She now owned the house.

“Here, he wants to talk with you.”

Kate’s little smile grated on Brody’s nerves. So she hadn’t been lying. Big whoop. The fact that one female had the ability to tell the truth should make him happy, but he couldn’t stop the unsettled feeling that something wasn’t right. How did Pete Kinsey fit into this?

“Everything seems to be in order. I still have questions.”

“I’m sure you do, Sheriff, but first things first. Release Mrs. Wheeler. There’s no need for her still to be in your custody.”

Brody wasn’t so sure about that. He couldn’t deny Kate’s name appeared on the copies of her late husband’s will and the deed to the house. She had every right to walk freely away and go about her life, yet he hesitated.

Mentally, he reviewed what he knew: Kate Wheeler’s husband had been murdered, she’d inherited the Kinsey home. According to the paper faxed to him by the lawyer, the L.A.P.D. was investigating Paul’s death but had yet to produce a suspect. All in all, the lawyer had supplied Brody with more information than required.

Legally, Brody had no reason to hold Kate, but it didn’t sit well just to let her walk out. His protective impulses demanded he take her back to the house himself. For crying out loud, the woman had been terrified that someone was out to kill her, too.

Brody glanced at the blank computer and fervently wished the contraption hadn’t gone on the blink. He would have liked to gather a bit more unbiased information.

Into the phone, Brody said crisply, “Mrs. Wheeler is free to go. I assume I can count on you to answer further questions?”

“Of course, Sheriff. Always happy to cooperate with the authorities.”

The veiled sarcasm in Thomas’s voice rang clear. Brody’s hand tightened on the receiver. “I’ll be in touch.”

As soon as he’d put the receiver back in the cradle, Kate piped up. “I told you I owned the place. You should have given me the benefit of the doubt.”

He slanted her a sideways glance. “Just doing my job, Mrs. Wheeler.”

“I thought people were considered innocent until proven guilty?”

“Not in any reality I know.” Brody’s mouth quirked with a self-effacing grimace.

He’d been young and idealistic enough once to believe in the system, to believe that good triumphed over evil, that right always won out in the end, and that justice for all wasn’t selective. But it was and he’d spent his adult life dedicated to making sure the innocent received their justice.

“But that’s how it’s supposed to work.”

“Supposed to being the operative phrase.”

Emotions flickered across Kate’s face—anger and a touch of sadness. The impulse to take her into his arms and hold her until only joy reflected in the depths of her green eyes rose up sharply. He clenched his jaw. Been down that road. Not going again.

She shook her head. “This isn’t the way God planned it, you know.”

Her words poked at an old wound. He raised a brow. “What makes you think God gives a rip?”

Little creases appeared between her brows. “Because the alternative is unthinkable. Without God, there’s no hope. Without hope, what’s the point?”

“The point is to make it through each day.” Refusing to let slip any of the betrayal he felt, he kept his voice neutral. “And if you live to see another day, you make it through that one.”

“That’s not living.”

He shrugged. “It’s surviving.”

“That’s missing out on all that God has to offer.”

Her earnest expression tugged at him, but he could never forget or forgive. “Yeah, like heartache and pain. No, thanks.”

“Who hurt you, Sheriff?”

The sincerity in her quietly asked question hit him in the chest like the business end of a nightstick. No way was he going to open up to her. No way was he going to allow anyone close again.

“I’ve seen more than my share of heartache and pain.”

Compassion and skepticism warred in her eyes. Tension coiled in his veins. The moment she decided to let it go he released a concentrated breath.

Amusement entered her gaze. “Havensport doesn’t exactly seem like crime central.”

“Normally, it’s not. You’re the most excitement this town has seen in a while.”

An auburn brow arched. “Oh, really.”

Heat crept up his neck. Real smooth, boyo.

She was exciting in a dangerous way that had nothing to do with the law and everything to do with attraction. Not a good thing.

He cleared his throat. “I meant the breaking and entering.”

Kate smiled and his gaze snagged on the cute little dimple in the middle of her chin. What would she do if he kissed her there?

His expression must have given away his thoughts because her smile faltered and a blush deepened the contours of her cheeks. She didn’t look away.

“I’m sorry I scratched you.”

Back to business, McClain. Forget about kisses. Kisses only led to betrayal.

“Are you ready to tell me what had you so scared?”

She lifted her delectable chin. “May I leave now?”

She was a tough little cookie. He liked that. “Come on, I’ll take you back.”

“I’ll walk, thanks,” she replied and headed for the door.

“I’ll drive you.”

With her hand on the doorknob, she glanced over her shoulder. “It’s not that far.”

“Doesn’t matter, I’m taking you back.”

With her hands on her hips, she glared at him. “I’m perfectly capable of seeing myself to my house.”

She was beautiful with her face framed by red curls and those green eyes sparking with fire. He had no intention of getting burned no matter how beguiling the flame.

“Are you always this stubborn?”

“You’re the one being stubborn,” she declared with a huff.

She reminded him of a rookie cop with a chip on her shoulder. “Humor me, okay? Let me do my job and take you back to your house.”

She regarded him steadily for a moment. “All right, fine. Do your job.” She opened the door and walked out.

Brody picked up a fax data form and wrote out a request for information on the investigation of Paul Wheeler’s murder. He dialed in the number for the L.A.P.D. and sent the fax. He turned to go and his gaze landed on Kate’s purse sitting on the floor next to his desk.

Her wallet still rested on the desktop. He picked it up. Maybe it was curiosity, maybe instinct, but instead of returning the wallet to the purse, he flipped it open. Plastic sheaths of photos, including her ID, separated the two halves. One side was lined with credit cards, gold and platinum. The other side held her checkbook.

He thumbed through the photos, a knot forming in his chest as his mind registered what he saw. There was a picture of Kate in a white wedding dress standing beside a tall, blond man. There was a photo of an older woman who he guessed to be her mother. Another picture of an older man in military uniform. Another less formal picture of the blond man. Brody slipped the picture out of the plastic. On the back, someone, Kate he presumed, had written the name Paul and the date of when the photo had been taken.

Brody tucked the picture into his shirt pocket. One question had been answered, but now he had others. He wondered how much Kate knew. And if she didn’t know? Dread crept up his spine. He didn’t want to be the one to tell her. But it looked like he had no choice.

Stepping out into the morning sunshine, Brody found Kate waiting on the sidewalk, her arms akimbo and one Italian-loafer-clad foot tapping. His mouth twisted. She was doing a bang-up job of looking like a woman used to getting what she wanted, when she wanted it, but the effort she was putting into the display made him think it wasn’t her usual M.O.

The brief summer storm left the air with a crisp freshness. But the telltale signs of raindrops still beading on his car reminded Brody of the night before and of what Kate would find when she went back to the house. He stopped in his tracks.

“Kate?”

She looked over her shoulder at him, her steps slowing to a halt and her brows drawn together. “Now what?”

“Did you get everything?”

Her brows rose. “I didn’t bring anything.”

“This, maybe?” He held up her purse.

She snatched it from him. “Thanks,” she mumbled.

She wouldn’t be thanking him when he told her what he’d discovered. With a pleasureless twist of his lips, he followed her to his cruiser and held open the passenger-side door. She gave him a tight smile and slid in.

As he headed the car down Main Street, he tried to formulate the best way of saying what needed to be said. But every time he tried to tell her, he couldn’t get the words to form.

“Okay, out with it.”

“Excuse me?”

Kate sighed. “You obviously have something on your mind. You’ve looked like a fish out of water ever since we got in the car.”

He slanted her a glance. “And how is that, exactly?”

“You keep opening your mouth to say something, then shutting it tight.” Kate demonstrated with exaggerated movements.

Brody’s rich laughter filled the cab of the car. Kate sucked in a breath. She liked the sound of his laugh: deep and warm…and inviting. She forced the thought away. She couldn’t let down her guard no matter how pleasing she found the sheriff.

“So, what is it?”

Brody sobered, his expression turning grim. A sense of impending doom filled Kate. What could he possibly have to say that would warrant such a reaction? Nothing, she decided, now that they’d determined she wasn’t going to be arrested.

“How long were you married to your…late husband?”

She frowned. “Four years.”

“How do you know Pete Kinsey was his business partner?”

That seemed like an odd question. “Paul told me after I found an invoice for a piece of office equipment. It had Kinsey’s name on it.”

He slanted her a quick glance. “You never met Pete Kinsey?”

She hated the pinprick of hurt needling her. “No. I didn’t even know about him until a year ago. Paul hadn’t invited anyone he worked with to our wedding.”

He didn’t comment, as his hands gripped and re-gripped the steering wheel.

“Why?”

He shrugged, then asked, “How well did you know Paul?”

An even odder question.

“As well as one could, I suppose. Paul wasn’t your open and friendly type.” Thinking back over the course of their relationship, she wondered how she’d missed his coldness in the beginning. Or had he been just that good at hiding it?

“He changed from when you first met him?”

Unnerved that he’d practically read her thoughts, she replied, “Yes, he did.”

“He traveled a lot.”

It wasn’t a question. “Yes. How did you know?”

Without answering, Brody slowed the vehicle and turned down the narrow dirt drive leading to the house.

In the bright morning sun, the cottage-style home and surrounding area held a charming appeal. A far cry from her impression last night. The blue-gray shingles, quaint dormer windows edged in white, and the wraparound porch were very welcoming. The shrubs and foliage of the yard held a certain rustic charm. And beyond the bungalow, the beach and frothy waves of the Atlantic Ocean gleamed in the sunlight. It was very picturesque and soothing.

Kate wished she’d been able to arrive in the light of day rather than the dead of a stormy night. The late flight out of L.A. and the subsequent drive to Havensport had made her arrival untimely.

She regretted she hadn’t rented a car instead of arranging for ground transportation. But at the time it seemed the best thing since she hadn’t a clue where she was going. Last night, the driver had dropped her off without so much as waiting to see if she’d made it in the house okay, leaving her stranded without any way to get around.

Brody parked and got out. Just as Kate opened the door, he was there offering her his help. She laid her hand in his. Warmth spread up her arm and around her heart. She hadn’t felt anything but coldness in so long.

Quickly, she disengaged from him and stepped away. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“And what question was that?”

She put her hands on her hips. “How did you know Paul traveled?”

Brody ran a hand through his dark hair. She watched the motion with a good dose of curiosity. How would his hair feel beneath her hand? Uncomfortable with the course of her thoughts, she averted her gaze and concentrated on the unseen bird singing from high in the large birch tree to the right of the house.

“I knew your husband.”

Snapping to attention, she frowned. “You did?” Wariness coiled tight in her chest. She looked at the house and tried to rationalize how they could have met. “He did own the house even if Pete Kinsey lived here. They were business partners, after all.”

“Not partners, exactly.”

Apprehension chilled her skin like a cold wind. “Meaning?”

Brody shifted his feet in a restless gesture before saying, “You see, your husband and Pete Kinsey were, well…”

“Yes?”

“Man.” His hard jaw tensed. “I’m botching this up.”

The wind turned into a full-blown hurricane. Could he have the answers she sought? “What? What should I know?”

Locking his gaze with hers, Brody stated, “They were the same man.”

FOUR

She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t something as ridiculous as that. Relief and disappointment made her laugh. “Excuse me?”

“Paul Wheeler and Pete Kinsey were the same person.”

She couldn’t see any humor in his expression, any mirth glinting in his dark eyes, but she couldn’t believe he was serious. “What kind of joke are you trying to play on me, Sheriff?”

“It’s no joke.”

“Oh, come on.” She gave a nervous laugh. “You can’t expect me to believe…that…my husband led some sort of…double life.”

Brody shrugged. “Believe what you will. The facts speak for themselves.”

“What facts?”

Shifting his weight to his left leg, Brody asked, “Was Paul tall, about six feet, with gray eyes and blond hair?”

Mutely, she nodded.

“So was Pete Kinsey.”

She scoffed. “Those are your facts?”

Brody’s mouth tightened. “Pete Kinsey had a tattoo.”

Kate’s eyes narrowed. “So?”

“Did Paul?”

“A lot of people have tattoos”

“On their left shoulder?”

Her mouth went dry. “Maybe.”

“Shall I describe it to you, Kate?” he asked, gently.

She shrugged and turned away, not liking what she was hearing, what he was insinuating.

“A small broken match.”

Her stomach churned. “Tattoos aren’t trademarked, Sheriff.” She glanced at him and his look told her he thought she was grasping at straws and soon the whole haystack was going to collapse.

“Did you ever go with your husband when he traveled?”

“No. I have my own career to think about.”

She almost groaned as the words left her mouth. The bank. This trip put her job, her career, in jeopardy, but she’d needed to take a leave of absence to find the answers to Paul’s death. The not knowing was driving her nuts.

And standing here arguing about something this farfetched wasn’t helping her accomplish anything. “Really, Sheriff. I think you should go. Your job here’s done.”

“Do you know where he went, Kate?”

She rolled her eyes. “His work took him all over the globe.”

“And what work was that?”

“He was a financial consultant.”

Brody nodded. “He came to the Cape every Fourth of July.”

She couldn’t say where Paul had gone for sure, and she’d always wondered why he’d work over that holiday. But what the sheriff was saying couldn’t be true. Paul was cold, selfish maybe, but he wasn’t…

She was about to say he wasn’t dishonest, but she knew in her heart that whatever Paul had been mixed up in, it hadn’t had anything to do with honesty. But could he have led a double life? No. She would have known, sensed something. Wouldn’t she have?

“Goodbye, Sheriff.”

He held out a photo. “This is the man I know as Pete Kinsey.”

She took the photo, instantly recognizing it. “You must be mistaken.”

“I’m not.”

She looked up into his eyes and noticed the way a thin, lighter blue ring circled the near-black irises, reminding her of the wind-tossed ocean off the Pacific Northwest coast. The sheriff had no reason to lie to her. But this just couldn’t be, her mind insisted. Paul was many things, but was he capable of this kind of deceit?

And if what the sheriff said was true, what did that say about her and her judgment? Could she have been that blind? How could she have been married to a man for four years and not know him?

Somewhere inside the house lay the answers. “This doesn’t prove anything.”

If it were true that Paul had had another existence, then that made her pretty stupid. Stupid for trusting, for believing in her husband. Stupid for trying so hard to save her marriage even after he’d moved out.

“I…it’s just not true.”

The look of understanding, of pity, that stole over the sheriff’s handsome face made her blood boil.

She crumbled the photo into her fist. “You can go now. I don’t need or want you here.”

His hand closed over hers. Her gaze was drawn to the way his larger, masculine hand enveloped her smaller, more delicate fingers in a protective grip. Her gaze lifted and met his intense look.

His dark eyes simmered. She could easily fall into the blaze that beckoned and allow herself the luxury of soothing warmth.

“Kate.” He spoke her name in an oddly hushed tone.

She jerked her hand away, stunned by the connection and longing welling up inside her.

He stepped back, his expression bemused.

Without another word, she fled to the safety of the house. As she reached the porch, she heard him say, “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

Her steps faltered, and slowly she turned around. Yes, she knew where to find the sheriff. For a moment, she allowed herself the indulgence of looking at him. She noticed the way his uniform outlined his masculine shape; broad chest tapering to a trim waist, long, lean legs.

A spark of sunlight caught her attention. Golden rays glinted off his badge, soaked into his dark hair, and caressed his handsome face. Her hand still tingled where he’d touched her.

Absently she rubbed the spot and took a step backwards, as if the more distance she put between them, the easier it would be to forget the odd sensations she’d felt when they’d touched. Animal attraction. Basic human instinct. God had, after all, gifted humans with the ability to connect physically to another. Though she’d never experienced anything this swift and this profound.

The crumbled ball in her hand bit into her palm and her jaw clenched. Regardless of how her hormones responded to this man, she refused to rely on him for help. She had to find out the truth about Paul on her own. “Goodbye, Sheriff.”

His expression rueful, he nodded. She watched him stride back to his car and climb in. He waved his hand in a final salute as he turned the car around. Standing rooted to the porch for several seconds after he had disappeared, a deep loneliness crept over her.

She’d been lonely before. The four years of her marriage were the loneliest in her life, but this sudden intense aloneness rocked her because it was desperate and unfamiliar. How could a man have this much effect on her?

Resolutely, she turned her attention to the house. Inside were the answers. She needed to stay focused and not let herself be distracted by the handsome sheriff.

Squaring her shoulders, she went in.

In the daylight, the house didn’t hold such a spooky, haunted-house feel as it had the night before. She looked around and moved purposely into the living room.

Built-in shelves lined one wall; big pieces of furniture covered with sheets dotted the large, dark green area rug.

Drawn to the shelves with the framed pictures, her heart throbbed inside her chest. With a shaky hand, she lifted a frame and stared at the picture. Paul smiled up at her, his arm slung carelessly around a buxom blonde. In the background, blue water sparkled in the glistening sun, mocking her with its seductive invitation to partake of the couple’s free and easy spirit.

She dropped the picture. It hit the floor at her feet, the glass cracking in two.

Numbness stole through her, surrounding her heart and chilling her soul as she picked up another frame. In this picture, a party by the looks of it, Paul was flanked on either side by recognizable faces. Some celebrities, others political figures.

Grabbing at another frame, she again saw Paul with famous and well-known people. She plucked at another picture and another until her arms were full. What is going on?

It wasn’t unreasonable that he would know these people in his line of work. After all, he was a consultant for wealthy people. But why hadn’t he mentioned he had the kind of relationship with them that was evident in these pictures?

It was clear that all the photos were taken at the beach house. Some even in the very room she stood in. Her throat constricted and tears blurred her vision as bitterness settled around her like a smothering cloak.

Abruptly, she dumped her load onto the couch. A cloud of dust puffed into the air, little bits and pieces floating away and doing nothing but making her sneeze.

Moving in a fog, Kate went from room to room looking at the remains of a life cut short. Of a life she’d known nothing about.

Besides the dust, the rooms were clean, uncluttered and devoid of personality. Guest rooms. She came to the room with the broken window. Before nightfall she’d have to have someone come out and repair the damage. She turned away from the reminder of her terror and continued on.

In what appeared to be the master bedroom, she saw signs of Paul—the scent of his cologne clung to the clothes hanging in the closet, his shirts and undergarments folded with precision in the drawers. She swallowed back the vile taste of betrayal.

She found receipts and notes in the top drawer of the oak dresser. The writing was Paul’s, but the signature said Pete Kinsey. She stared at the papers. Pain squeezed her head like a vice. How could she have been so oblivious?

The tremors started deep down inside and quickly worked their way out. She sank to her knees and rested her head against the bed. Sobs clogged her throat and tears burned a salty trail down her cheek. Why had Paul, or Pete or whoever he was, lied? Why had he kept a part of himself from her? Was this other identity the reason he’d been killed?

Her hands curved into fists. Why had he involved her?

Lord, I’m so angry and hurt and confused. This doesn’t make sense.

A line of scripture floated through her consciousness. My presence shall go with you, and I will give you rest.

Clinging to that promise, she slowly crawled up onto the bed and curled into a ball. So tired, so very tired. Her mind shut down and blessed numbness wrapped around her, taking her away from the hurt and endless parade of lies.

Brody’s fingers drummed on the desktop. What was Kate’s story? The thought had plagued him since he’d left her at the Kinsey house.

“What’s eating at you, boss?” Deputy Teal’s voice broke through Brody’s thoughts.

“Nothing,” he replied, absently.

Nothing, everything…Kate. For more hours than he cared to admit to, Brody had been unable to keep his mind off Kate Wheeler. She’d made her feelings clear. And he was glad. He certainly didn’t want to be bothered with a headstrong woman who couldn’t accept the truth even when it stared her in the face.

Brody stilled his fingers. He’d wasted enough time today thinking about Kate. She wasn’t his problem. She owned the house now, and would eventually realize that what he’d told her was the truth and then she’d go back to where she came from. He nodded to close the subject in his mind, but he couldn’t quite banish the nagging terror he’d seen in her eyes.

There were other matters needing his attention. Like the feud still raging between Mr. Haskel and Mr. Moore. The two old codgers each swore that the other was poaching fish. Like you could poach fish from the ocean during fishing season.

He shook his head, knowing that the fighting gave the two widowers something to keep their minds active. Only they sometimes got carried away in their attempts to out-fish each other. On numerous occasions, Brody’d had to settle a dispute over whose fish was whose.

Today it seemed Mr. Haskel had caught Mr. Moore using his lure.

Rolling his chair away from the desk, Brody heard the crinkling sound of paper caught under the wheels. Teal and his paper basketballs. He bent to retrieve what he assumed would be a stray ball and discovered a sheet of fax paper.

He stared at the contents of the fax for a good thirty seconds before he remembered to take a breath.

He knew it. He just knew it. Below the L.A.P.D. heading, the fax stated that Katherine Wheeler was considered a “person of interest” in the murder investigation of Paul Wheeler and that currently Mrs. Wheeler’s whereabouts were unknown and she was being sought.

He hoped they were wrong, but if they weren’t…

His lip curled. He knew where she was. Sitting back down in his chair, he picked up the phone and called California. The line was picked up on the third ring and after Brody explained to the desk sergeant what he wanted, he was transferred to a Detective Arnez.

“Sheriff, what can I do for you?”

Brody swiped a hand through his hair. “I have information concerning the Wheeler investigation.”

“Wheeler. Hold on.”

Brody heard the rustling of paper before Arnez came back on the line. “Oh, yeah. Got the file right here. Hey, didn’t you request the current status of the investigation earlier today?”

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